The letter you always wanted to write
I was 18 months into my marriage when I met you. I had made the mistake of marrying someone out of loyalty as a friend, and fear of solitude, and had no idea at the time how that carried a risk of deep unhappiness and loneliness on a level I'd never previously known. Before my wedding, I moved to a place 90 minutes' drive away from my hometown, family and friends, and embarked on a new life with my wife-to-be, and without regular contact with my family or friends.
I was supposed to feel certain things when I met my wife – attraction, passion, desire etc. Instead, after a decade of tumultuous relationships, I was drawn to the "safety" and "low-risk" of being with her.
I wasn't in love, and if I wasn't in love, I could never be hurt. If I was ever rejected, it wouldn't cut me to pieces like hurt really does. I married her after five years in a relationship, by which time, I was comfortable, but not happy. Even on our wedding day, I felt as though the best days of our relationship were long behind us.
After a short while of marriage, my attention wandered. I'd been cooped up in my marital home with no friends in the area, and just my wife for company. I began to think about forming new networks, as solitude and cabin fever set in. You and I began to chat on Twitter about local issues, mainly. Other light-hearted topics crept in.
One bright day in spring, you organised community volunteering, which suited me as a) I wanted to be part of it, and b), I wanted to meet you. My wife was away visiting her family at the time, so I was at a loose end.
When we met on that sunny day, surrounded by a dozen other people, I remembered what attraction was. I wasn't conflicted or confused – I didn't think anything would come of our meeting, but you and I became friends. We occasionally saw each other in town and had started to message online. When you started taking an interest in me, replying to my messages with smiles and winks, I was flattered and curious. I was smitten – you were happy, confident and charming, and I hadn't seen these qualities at home for some time.
You gave me so much self-esteem and confidence in the six months that we were close friends. These were the best and worst times of my adult life. It was the time when I had to admit to myself and those closest to me that my marriage was not only over, but that it had never got off the ground. You were superb throughout this time. You were available for chats, cups of coffee before work, and friendly, chatty emails throughout the day.
By the time this had been going on for three or four months, I had developed feelings that went beyond appreciation and friendship. Every decision I made was in consideration of you. The clothes I wore depended on whether there was a chance we'd see each other in the street. The books I bought were the ones I wanted you to notice me reading. My mood swung between confident and sulky depending on how much attention you paid me in a day.
After a particularly difficult day at home and work, I went to the pub with a mate. I should have known better – I was frustrated and tired, and lonely. On the train home after two bottles of poorly chosen wine, I texted you to suggest that we could be together. This was wrong. It ignored the boundaries you had set and it was presumptuous, arrogant and bordering on something quite creepy. You haven't spoken to me since, save for one email that cut me adrift. That hurt terribly, and I'm not entirely sure I deserved that outcome. A fortnight in the cold, perhaps. A warning, definitely.
R
Put the internet to work for you.
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